The Sight
by VivusEtIterum
Summary: I wrote this quickly, but I'm rather proud of it. Short little oneshot, it is complete. Does not directly feature Snape, but it is about him.


The first Potions class of her second year was the worst of her life. She remembers the look upon his face when he lightly brushed her arm as she passed him, a purely accidental happening, with unexpected results. She had gone stiff as a board, felt herself falling, her eyes rolling back into her head as she was hit with vision after vision. The other professors knew of her condition; how could they not? Trelawney spoke of her to anyone who would listen. But her new Potions professor hadn't been made aware. She was told by several of her classmates that he had barked at everyone to leave the classroom, and for someone to fetch Madam Pomfrey. He had been distressed, they said.

It lasted no more than 5 minutes, but she saw enough to know he had a very treacherous life ahead of him. The last vision she saw was that of an enormous snake; upon awakening she had gasped the word "Nagini."

* * *

Minerva McGonagall had seen more than enough suffering in her lifetime, but she could not drag herself away from the sight outside her window.

"It's the ninth day of the month, is it not my dear?" Albus Dumbledore muttered from his portrait on the wall behind her.

"You know very well what day it is." She responded tartly. "It's always the ninth day of the month." she trailed off quietly.

"Will you go down and see her this time?"

"I think not." Minerva whispered back. "January is usually the hardest for her."

"I think it is for us all." Albus replied sadly.

* * *

It is the ninth day of January, and she realises that he would be 49 today. The cold bites into her exposed neck, and she wonders if it is even a miniscule comparison to what he experienced in his last moments. She lays down this month's offering, a small gardenia, petals charmed a deep ebony. The wind picks up ever so slightly, and she unconsciously shivers, though she doesn't really feel it; no, the coldness in her bones is not from the wind, but from something else entirely.

Most people who have seen her on her monthly journey think she is filled with guilt, but it is so much more than that, so much so that she cannot breathe when she thinks about it. The question is rarely breached in her mind, but when it is, the results are ugly. She has seen death in person, in visions, in her mind, and his is the only that haunts her.

Her hand runs over the smooth marble of his headstone, small and unobtrusive on the grounds, but still there. She traces the name carved into it, the date of birth, and the date of death. Her fingers tremble as they hover over the inscription, and she instead runs her palm across it gently, a first for her. She never touches the inscription, for it is the inscription she argued against. She heard, through the grapevine, when his portrait had been informed of it, he was apoplectic with rage.

"A Fallen Hero."

She scoffs at it, even now. It did not belong, not on his headstone. He was not a hero; he was everything a hero could not be. A tear slips out, and falls quickly. She presses her forehead against the cool stone and lets the rest escape silently.

She fights the urge to go see his portrait each month. Sometimes, she thinks it might help; just to see him, to hear his voice. But every time, something else stops her. She fears that he will deny her, ignore her. She wishes she were brave enough to face him, but she isn't. It seems the war took what bravery she had and stamped it out viciously.

On that night, she had stood on that battlefield, that battlefield seemingly transported from Hell itself, and watched as his death flashed before her eyes. She felt the Sight left her body with a shuddered exhale- at the exact same time the last exhalation of Severus Tobias Snape occurred.

She had not had a vision since the early morning hours of May 2nd, 1998. Her Sight had died with him. She questioned it at first, but did her research, spoke to other Seers. It seemed, according to them, he was her soul-mate. She denied it at first; that was impossible. She did not believe in love. But the more she pondered it, the more sense it made. Never in her life had a simple brush from another human being triggered visions so strong. There had always been a pull between them, one dismissed by the both of them.

They had tea together every now and then, when their work for the Order coincided. Tea on random occasions did not make a soul-mate, but then again, stranger things had been heard of. She hadn't known what to believe in the months following his death, except that she was drowning in a sea of guilt and longing. So the visits to his grave had begun.

She was the guilty party. If she had just done a little more research into the snake called Nagini. Perhaps if she had told him to be wary of it. She never had. She thought it was an insignificant detail! Oh, the foolishness. The naivety. And so she travelled back, every ninth day of every month,every year. She went to the grave where the man who had made her believe in love rested.

She knows it is irrational, and idiotic. She understands this. That doesn't mean she does not not cling to it. It is her only life preserver in the waters of despair. She drowns in thoughts of his eyes, the remembrance of his voice, of his hands. But sometimes she feels his presence when she least expects it, just behind her, watching and waiting. Waiting for her to join him. Waiting for the woman who can love him the way he never was.


End file.
